


I'd Follow Your Love Down a Dead End Street

by ZoePlacid



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: M/M, anti-soul mates au, but this is still an ian/mickey romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-18 23:52:13
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4724882
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ZoePlacid/pseuds/ZoePlacid
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Gallagher wishes his soul mate was Mickey Milkovich, but the universe seems to have other ideas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I'd Follow Your Love Down a Dead End Street

**Author's Note:**

> I actually love the soul mate trope (and I read a ton of soul mate fics), but I was thinking one day about what would happen if the soul mate thing just didn’t work for you? Or if the person everyone said you were supposed to be happy with wasn’t who you wanted? So this happened. I also wanted to try writing in a different style than how I normally do. I wrote most of this fic about 6 months ago, before the finale, when I still had hope, etc.
> 
> The title comes from the Joel Plaskett song, “When I Close My Eyes.”

Sometime between the ages of 12 and 18 it appeared. A tattoo-like name, in hard black ink, scrawled on the inside of your wrist. Ian got his eight months after his 16th birthday. He woke up one morning, scratched his head, and noticed a mark that had never been there before. For one quick moment he was very, very excited. He just knew it had to be Mickey’s name. And sure enough, there was a capital ‘M’ dark and bold on his skin, but the rest of the name was not Mickey’s. It had only three letters and it spelled ‘Max.’ Ian looked at this name and felt like he had been punched in the stomach. He didn’t know a Max. And frankly he wasn’t excited about meeting one any time soon, either. So. That was it. Mickey wasn’t his soul mate. How could Mickey not be his soul mate?

He tried to hide it from Mickey. Wore long sleeve shirts. But with the amount of sex they had (and the fact that Ian usually loved to take off his shirt during sex) it only took two days for Mickey to find that weird.

“How come you’re keeping your shirt on all the time, huh?” Mickey asked one day as they shared a cigarette in Mickey’s bedroom after Ian had pounded into him until they were sweaty and spent.

Ian shrugged, “I don’t know.” Ian wished he some ability to think of a better excuse but he’d never been good at playing it cool. What possible reason could someone have for keeping their shirt on while having sex with Mickey? Mickey who liked to run his hands all over him? There was none.

Mickey leaned over and roughly pushed one of Ian’s shirt sleeves up and then the other until he saw the name written on Ian’s skin. He didn’t say anything for a long moment. Ian didn’t know what to say himself. Eventually Mickey mumbled, “I always knew.”

“It doesn’t have to mean--“ Ian started to say.

Mickey shook his head, “No. You know what it means.”

Two months ago Mickey had turned eighteen, still with no name on his wrist. Some people never did get a name and Mickey was one of them. At the time Ian had been slightly disappointed, but not terribly. Who the fuck knew about this soul mate crap anyway? Some people got names, others didn’t. As long as Ian got Mickey’s name (or no name) everything would be fine. But now it wasn’t. It wasn’t fine. And somewhere there was a Max who probably had Ian’s name seared on his own wrist. Ian and Mickey weren’t built to last. The universe had ordained it.

They had been fucking around with each other for over a year. Always in secret, always with the fear of Mickey’s dad finding out. They worked together at the Kash N' Grab and they hung out and they made each other laugh and they fucked. They had never said “I love you”--never even came close to it, but Ian wanted to say it now. 

“Mick, I--“

“Shut up,” Mickey cut him off, as if he knew what Ian was about to confess, “It’s not a fucking big surprise. Just because we like fucking around doesn’t mean we were gonna be forever. I mean, I never wanted to be stuck with you forever.”

And it hurt Ian to hear this, but Mickey’s voice shook a bit as he said it and Ian knew he was lying. 

“Yeah…” he said, as if he agreed with Mickey. Maybe he did, actually. Maybe Mickey’s problems with being gay, with coming out, with being free to actually love who he wanted to love--maybe this name “Max” tattooed on Ian’s arm was proof that Mickey could never do it. Could never admit he loved him, could never be the boyfriend that Ian wanted.

“Yeah, I guess you’re right. But this doesn’t mean--I mean, we can still hang out, right?”

“Sure, man. I don’t give a fuck about your soul mate. That’s for you to worry about.”

And that was that.

 

*****

 

The next year and a half Ian spent with Mickey. They never said 'I love you.' They never kissed on the lips. They never mentioned soul mates. Sometimes, after sex, if they were in a bed or resting against a wall, Mickey would run his fingertips over the letters. Tracing ‘Max’ over and over but with a look on his face that Ian couldn’t read. And Ian knew better than to ask him about it.

Ian graduated from high school and the night before he was going to leave for the army (he didn’t get into West Point, but he was going to join the army for a few years and use it to later pay for college) they went to their usual abandoned building, drank a shit ton of Jack, and fucked. Afterwards they sat together and didn’t say anything. There was so much Ian wished he could tell Mickey, but he didn’t know where to begin.

Eventually, Mickey took a swig of whiskey and said, “Always knew you were too good for this place. Glad you’re getting out.”

Ian looked away from him, “Well, I’m not. I’ll miss you.”

“You think that now, but you’re gonna meet a shitload of new people and then you’ll meet your soul mate. You’re gonna be happy. I’m…a fucking bump on your road. A story you’ll tell. ‘I once banged this closet case with knuckle tattoos--‘”

Ian was starting to get angry, “I’m never going to think of you like that--“

“People forget, is what I’m saying. You’ll move on.”

They were sitting side by side on a disgusting couch someone had left up here. It was past 11 PM and the only light came from a streetlamp, which was filtered through a slat-board window. The bars of light illuminated one side of Mickey’s face. He looked sad--sadder than Ian had ever seen him before. Ian grabbed the whiskey bottle out of Mickey’s hands, ignored his annoyed, “Hey!” and leaned over and kissed him. Fuck it. If it was their last night together then Ian was finally kissing him. At first Mickey froze, but then he kissed him back. They clutched at each other. Held on for dear life. After a long, long while Ian pulled back, breathing heavily, and rested his forehead against Mickey’s. He said, “I’m never going to forget you. I don’t give a shit if Max is fucking perfect and I’m writing fucking sonnets about him. I’m never going to forget you--and if I didn’t have this other name on my wrist I would think my soul mate is you.”

Mickey didn’t reply. He just stared into Ian’s eyes for a second and then gave a quick nod. A few hours later, when Ian had to go home to at least try to get some sleep, Mickey walked him there. When they reached the Gallagher gate, they lingered, not saying anything and looking at the ground. After a long moment Mickey said, “Always knew I wouldn’t get a fucking soul mate--but I’m glad I had you--for a while.” And then he turned around and took off quickly. Ian never had a chance to say good-bye.

 

*****

 

Ian joined the army. After two tours, he left and was accepted into the University of Wisconsin at Madison. He fucked a lot of guys but none of them meant anything special. At first he thought of Mickey all the time. He even wrote him a few emails (carefully leaving anything out that could sound romantic or sexual in case one of his brothers or father saw it) but Mickey never wrote back and eventually Ian got the message.

Mickey had been right after all. Over the years Ian missed Mickey less and less until he only thought of him about twice a month when he couldn’t sleep and it was 3 a.m. On these nights thoughts of Mickey came crowding in and he couldn’t stop them. Mickey’s smell. Mickey’s fingers holding a cigarette. Mickey’s hands running over Ian’s body--so gentle and graceful. 

When he was a junior he took a grad level English literature class and there was Max. They both knew what they were to each other almost instantly. During their first class, after the usual “go round the room and introduce yourself” when Ian said his own name, a guy with curly brown hair and pale skin looked at him sharply. Ian thought it was strange until he heard the guy say _his_ own name. Max. Then he knew. 

After class they fell into step beside each other--walking who knew where.

“So,” Max said hesitantly, “This is going to sound really weird but I think--I mean, I have this name on my wrist--it’s ‘Ian’--and I think that might mean you.”

Ian laughed, “Yeah, I’ve got the name Max.” And they glanced at each other out of the corners of their eyes and smiled.

It wasn’t like magic. They didn’t fall instantly into soul enveloping love. They went on a few dates. They talked. They slept together. It was exciting and it became better. It became nice. Ian kept thinking, “Well, this has to be it. I’ve found my soul mate.” But there was always a sliver of doubt. Something that he had never heard anybody else mention. And there was always the thought of Mickey.

He hadn’t seen Mickey in years. Hadn’t spoken to him, hadn’t texted him. Nothing. When he went home he asked at the Alibi about him sometimes, but no one seemed to know anything. Mandy had moved away--successfully escaping her family. She lived in Minneapolis now and sometimes Ian visited her, but he was too scared to ask her about Mickey. She was the one person who might actually know and he thought maybe he’d hear something bad. Maybe Mickey was in jail. Or sad and unhappy. He didn’t want to know that--not really. 

Max looked a little like Mickey, actually. He had dark hair and blue eyes. Pale skin with a smattering of freckles across his face. Ian mentioned this to Lip once (the one person who had known about him and Mickey) and Lip had said, “Well, yeah, that makes sense. There’s this whole theory about soul mates. That all the other people you date until you meet them are sort of…similar to them. They’re like the trial runs. And then once you meet the real deal it’s like that person is the original painting and you know all the other ones were just practice sketches.”

But Ian didn’t feel that way. Instead he felt like Max was the rough, unfinished draft of Mickey. Looking at him sometimes, perversely, Ian missed Mickey. He could only think of the ways Max and Mickey were different. How Mickey’s eyes crinkled in the corners. How he looked at Ian when he thought Ian couldn’t see. The way he cared so much but always pretended he didn’t. How much they laughed. The way they could hang out for hours and just sort of…be. He always felt more at home and happy with Mickey than he had with anyone else. Even Max.

Wasn’t this fucked up? He had Max’s name on his wrist and Max had his. The entire universe and fate and destiny had decreed that Ian should be with Max. He must be some kind of weirdo to keep thinking of another man he hadn’t seen since he was 18. It was probably some self-destructive Gallagher bullshit.

 

*****

 

He and Max became a couple. As Ian headed towards graduation and Max was also almost done with his MFA the subject of the future came up again and again. Max was applying for creative writing teaching positions at various schools around the country and wherever he ended up he wanted Ian to come with him. Since Ian had no firm plans after graduation--and no idea of what he wanted to do--this seemed logical. They’d move to St. Louis or Milwaukee or wherever and Max would teach and Ian would find a job doing something hopefully vaguely interesting.

Everything seemed set. Finished. He had his soul mate. He was about to become the third Gallagher to graduate from college. His family all loved Max and they had spent Christmas together this year. Max had fit right in--able to joke with Lip, and talk with Fiona, and bake with Debbie and it had been nice. So why wasn’t Ian satisfied? Why did he still think about another guy who had ridiculous knuckle tattoos and who glanced away so Ian wouldn't see his lips curl faintly at something silly Ian said?

While looking through the course catalog for his last semester, Ian noticed a class in the gender studies department called “The Myth of Soul Mates: Deconstructing ‘Fate’.” He didn’t usually take classes in this department but he immediately checked the full-length course description. It read, “This class will delve into how social constructions of the “soul mate phenomenon” interact with, and help to culturally define, class, sex, and gender.”

It fit his schedule and he enrolled.

 

*****

 

The soul mates class was pretty much all feminist and queer theory and Ian was in way over his head. Thank god he had taken an intro to literary theory class the year before or he would’ve been completely at sea. Each week they had several long readings that Ian struggled to make sense of and then they would come to class and hash over them. Ian mostly just listened to the other students discuss things he barely understood. 

As the semester waned, what he realized was that there were many people who didn’t believe in soul mates at all. The class read many articles about the history of how other cultures interpreted the soul mate phenomenon. The ancient Greeks had thought the name was left on your body by Hermes and that it was the name of someone you should take care of (and that could mean marriage or just doing them an important favor). The Incans had thought that it meant that you and the person would become entangled together in some way in the future: but not necessarily in marriage. In Europe, for centuries, it only meant “soul mate” if you received the name of someone of the opposite sex. If you were a guy and you received another guy’s name it was assumed that you would become best friends (Ian snorted while reading that) and if you were fellow soldiers in some army, it was thought that one of you would save the other’s life. There were many stories from various wars about men with their names on each other’s arm later saving their lives. Ian’s class debated this hotly: some thought this proved that soul mates did exist because obviously these men were in love with each other, they just couldn’t let the world know. Others said that maybe it was sexual, maybe it was platonic, but that you couldn’t transpose 21st century interpretations onto earlier relationships.

Ian didn’t know what to believe.

In the last two weeks of the course, though, they read an article written by a psychologist who posited that soul mates could mean whatever you wanted them to mean. If you received a name and fell in love with that person: then fine. If you received a name and just became good friends: also fine. The quote that stuck with Ian was this one, “We inherit many things in our lives and each one affects us, but none determines us. Possessing a gene for alcoholism does not necessarily mean you will become an alcoholic. Superb hand-eye coordination does not necessarily mean you will become an athlete. So why should a name on your arm mean you are bound to love that person forever?”

In their last class the discussion was less formal and some of the other students shared their own experiences with the name they had on their arms. A girl named Josie spoke about how when she was 17 she received another girl’s name on her arm, “Hannah” and it freaked her out for a long, long time because she hadn’t wanted to be bi-sexual. She still hadn’t met Hannah yet, but she said it didn’t really matter to her anymore if she met her or not because Hannah’s name had already helped her realize who she was.

And a woman named Samantha spoke. She said that her soul mate had been emotionally abusive to her for years. And she had stayed with him because she thought that this was the way things were supposed to be. He was “the one” for her. But one day she went for a walk after he had said some particularly horrible things and she realized she would rather be alone for the rest of her life than spend one more day with him.

“So I left. And his name is still on my arm, and that bothered me for a really long time, but now I think that this soul mates thing...it’s not the name of someone you should be with necessarily: it’s the name of someone you need to meet. Maybe to fuck. Maybe to marry. Or maybe to force you to realize you’re awesome enough to tell the whole universe to go fuck itself.”

As Ian walked across campus to the apartment he and Max shared he kept thinking about what Samantha had said. Max, of course, wasn’t emotionally abusive. He was nice and thoughtful and kind of adorable, really. But what if his name on Ian’s arm didn’t mean what most people said it meant? What if Max was someone who Ian had needed to meet for whatever reason. Someone who would impact him or help him realize something? What if Max wasn't his soul mate?

A few weeks later, after Ian graduated and after Max graduated, Max received a teaching offer from a private high school in Chicago. Max was so excited because this would be perfect for them--it was a big city so Ian could find a job doing whatever he wanted. They’d be close to Ian’s family on the South Side and not too far from Max’s family who lived in Kohler, Wisconsin. It was ideal. 

Ian broke up with him. 

He had expected Max to be angry at him. Or really hurt. Instead he was mostly confused. He kept saying over and over, “You’re breaking up with me? But I’m your soul mate!” 

No one understood it. Max’s mother, who had always loved Ian, called him to talk to him gently and reasonably. She said, “Ian, dear, I know it can be scary--finally meeting your soul mate and realizing that this begins the rest of your life--but please don’t throw something good away out of fear.”

Ian didn’t know what to say to her so he just told her that he needed time to think. He ended up telling everyone else that, too. Even Max. It was such a foregone conclusion that he _had_ to be with Max , and he was so sick of calls from Fiona, Lip, Debbie, and even Carl yelling at him for being an idiot, that he eventually just told Max that he only needed a break. Time to think. He said he was taking a trip to visit Mandy and he’d be back...maybe. Max just looked at him sadly and said, “I’ll be waiting for you when you decide to come back--I’m angry--but I’ll be waiting for you.”

Ian had never felt more guilty in his life.

He did travel to Mandy. She was still living in Minneapolis in a cute one-bedroom apartment in a neighborhood filled with tall leafy trees and great restaurants. She was working as a paralegal at a legal aid firm that helped women divorce their abusive husbands. It was a demanding job, but Mandy really loved it most of the time. The first night he arrived they went to an Ethiopian place and while eating the spongy bread, lentils, carrots, and beef, Ian told her what had happened. She was the first person in his life who almost understood.

“Yeah, I haven't really believed in the soul mate thing for years. I mean true love ordained by God or the universe or whatever? Give me a fucking break. You should see the amount of women our firm has defended who've been beaten black and blue by their so-called soul mates. I’ve never met mine and I don't care if I do or not.” Mandy’s name on her arm was ‘Royce’. Ian remembered her in high school wondering idly if it was a guy’s name or a girl’s. 

Ian nodded, “Yeah…” He was trying to think how to tell her it wasn’t really about his feelings for Max, it was more about his persistent feelings for Mickey, but he wasn’t sure how. He and Mickey had always been a secret they kept from her and everyone else. He tried anyway, “It’s not that I don't love Max, it’s more like there’s someone else who I think I love more?"

“You mean, Mickey?”

Ian froze. He pretended to take a sip of his Coke and tried to say casually, “What are you talking about?” Still protecting Mickey after all this time. 

“Well, didn’t you two fuck around in secret for years? It seemed pretty intense to me.”

Ian gave up the pretense, “You knew the whole fucking time? Did Mickey tell you?"

“No, not at first. But Mickey’s my brother and you're my best friend who I hung out with all the time back then--it didn’t take a genius to spot what was going on.”

“Huh. Well--are you mad?” 

“Mad? Ian this was eight years ago--I was sorta angry that you didn't tell me back then, but I got it. Mickey didn’t want anyone to know he was gay. And our dad would’ve killed him.”

Ian nodded. He remembered Mickey and Mandy’s father. Remembered the bruises on Mickey’s arms and face. Remembered the sadness in Mandy’s eyes all the time.

“Mickey confessed the whole thing to me later, anyway. He never told me your name but I knew it was you. He left Chicago after you did and about two years later I visited him. He told me then that he was gay and he said the only serious thing he’d ever had was with another guy in high school. So, yeah…”

Ian's heart was pounding but he had to ask, he had to know, “Where'd he go?”

“San Diego. After you left I think he just went to the bus station and got on the first Greyhound heading for a place that sounded nice. I was the only one he kept in touch with. It was kind of a secret from the rest of the family where he was.”

“He still there?” 

“Yep. He works in a restaurant as a sous chef. He started washing dishes and worked his way up. He’s a really good cook. He lives in this tiny apartment about 5 blocks from the ocean. It’s the size of a fucking shoe box but the view is amazing.”

It made Ian happy to think of Mickey in some nice place, liking his job, and not scared of his father anymore. But at the same time Ian couldn’t picture Mickey there. It seemed _too_ nice, too picture-postcard-perfect for him. Ian wanted desperately to see him--to see Mickey happy for himself--to prove that it was true. And who was he kidding? He just missed him. He wanted him. 

“Do you think he’d mind if I went to see him?”

“Uh, yes. Like a lot. But who the fuck cares if he minds? I'll write down his address and number. But don't call ahead--just surprise him. He'll tell you to fuck off if you let him know you're coming.”

“Why--I mean, if he doesn’t want to see me, then why are you sending me to him?”

“Because you don't believe in soul mates anymore and I'm 90% sure that all you have to do is convince him, too, before he'll jump on you."

 

*****

 

Mickey’s apartment building was in downtown San Diego, a few blocks from the train station and the ocean. It was in an old-fashioned building with a brick facade and dark red trim. Ian waited outside the building for hours, feeling like a stalker as the other residents came and went through the glass doors. He could've gone to Mickey's restaurant and found him right away--Mandy had given him that info, too--but he didn't want to surprise Mickey at work. He had no idea what kind of reception he'd receive. If Mickey would kiss him, hit him, or just walk right past him.

A little past midnight Ian saw a figure with a familiar stride come up the street. He'd recognize that walk anywhere and he felt his face smiling in Mickey's direction without even thinking. Just happy to see this short, dark-haired grumpy man after all these years.

Mickey actually did walk right past him because Ian hung back in the shadows as he passed by. After 8 years, after traveling cross country, after waiting outside for 2 1/2 hours, he was too chicken shit to say anything to him. Ian's mouth felt dry. He felt like crying.

Mickey didn't go inside right away. He was smoking a cigarette and he lingered outside to finish it, hovering around the door. Ian watched him smoke--all his gestures so familiar. Ian hadn't seen Mickey smoke in 8 years but it was something he paid a lot of attention to in high school. He paid attention to everything Mickey did, actually. The way he held a cigarette to his lips, the way he flicked its ashes on the ground. Nobody had ever managed to smoke a cigarette with such a combination of elegance and irritation as Mickey. He always looked vaguely irritated at the cigarette when he smoked--like he expected better things from it than what he was given. But at the same time his fingers moved gracefully as they lifted the filter to his mouth and inhaled. Mickey had genuinely beautiful hands. Ian had always loved his long, slender fingers. Loved the way Mickey constantly gestured with them and waved them around in an unspoken language that might as well have been called Mickey-ese.

So Ian watched him now. He was starting to feel a panicked feeling in his chest because he thought that he might let Mickey slip away again. He might be too scared. He couldn't think. He felt frozen. Once he said something to him then there was no going back, then he would know--he'd know if Mickey would want him, if they had a chance.

Mickey stubbed his cigarette out and started digging around in his pockets for his keys. He found them, shook them until he found the right one for the entry door, and started to put it into the lock. Right before he opened the door Ian shouted out a strained, "Hey!"

Mickey had been turned toward the door but now he glanced towards Ian's shadow and said, "Don't fuck with me asshole, I've got like seven bucks and a Glock on me."

Despite how embarrassed and awkward and scared Ian felt he laughed, "So I guess I don't have to ask if that's a gun in your pocket or if you're just pleased to see me."

Mickey dropped his keys and stared. Ian moved a little closer, like someone who was trying to not spook a rabbit.

"Hey," Ian said, "I--I came to see you," he snorted, "Well, I guess that's obvious. Mandy gave me your address. You look great by the way. Your hair looks fantastic--"

"Ian."

"Yeah?"

"What the fuck are you doing here?"

"I broke up with Max. My soul mate--you know the name on my arm?" Mickey nodded, "Well, I sort of broke up with him. No one except Mandy really seems to believe that I'd walk away from him. But I have."

Mickey looked incredibly puzzled. And pained. It hurt Ian to see that look in Mickey's eyes. 

"Go back to him."

"What?"

"He's your fucking soul mate, Ian. What the fuck are you even doing here?" Mickey asked again, this time sounding angry.

"I don't give a damn about soul mates, Mickey! I want you! And It's all a fucking social construct anyway--"

"What the fuck are you talking about?" They were both shouting by now and Ian felt like this was pretty much the worst possible outcome for how he imagined this scenario

"Look, can we just...go somewhere to talk? Like your apartment or a coffee shop or something?"

Mickey stared at him for a long time and then said, "Sure. Why the fuck not? This is just what I wanted to do at 12:15 on a fucking Wednesday night. C'mon," And he opened the building's door and ushered Ian in.

Mickey lived on the 8th floor. In the elevator on the way up neither one of them said anything and Ian had clammy hands and a racing heart. He kept glancing at Mickey who stared straight ahead, refusing to look back at Ian. They got off on 8 and Mickey walked down the hall to his apartment, Ian trailing behind him. Mickey stopped at the door for apartment 810 and unlocked it. He pushed the door open and said as Ian went past him, "All right, Mr. Amor Prohibido, you've got 5 minutes."

"Amor prohibido?" Ian was used to Mickey coming up with unique nicknames for him but he had no idea what this one meant.

"Yeah, you talk like you're on a telenovela. 'I don't give a damn about soul mates! I want you, Mickey, no matter what the universe says!' It's fucking amor prohibido talk--forbidden love shit."

Ian laughed at Mickey's impression of him which was annoying but kind of endearing. He supposed he really did sound like a dramatic idiot and he had always liked it when Mickey made fun of him. It was never too mean--always kind of affectionate. Back when they were first fucking around it had surprised Ian because Mickey would make fun of him and repeat something Ian had said and it was like...proof...that Mickey paid attention to him. _Close attention_ in fact. Mickey was often able to repeat his words verbatim.

"Well, it's true. I don't really care about soul mates anymore. I met mine and he's nice but he's not you."

Mickey sat down on his sofa (Mandy was right, the apartment was really tiny--the sofa as about a foot from the bed--the whole place couldn't have been more than 200 square feet but it had huge windows and looked out over the ocean. If Ian hadn't been trying to desperately woo Mickey back he would've been gaping at the view. The lights on the water were beautiful at night.

But Mickey was glaring at him and it was no time to get sidetracked by scenery.

"I'm not going to be the excuse you use to blow up your own life. If you want to fuck up the good thing you probably have with this guy that's fine--but do it without me."

"You really think what I have with him is better than what I had with you? Then what we could have again?"

"Are you fucking serious? You've got his fucking name on your arm! That's like...it's like the one thing in our whole stupid existence that's certifiably magic, Ian."

"No. No, it isn't. You know what else is magic? How I loved you when I was just a kid but it never went away. I loved you even when I thought I should love somebody else. Even when I never spoke to you for years. I thought...I thought maybe when I saw you again tonight--that there was a chance seeing you might prove everyone else right--that I'd see you and I'd realize we changed--that I would realize I had just built up everything in my mind and I was actually meant to be with Max. But that didn't happen. I saw you walk up that fucking street and I still loved you so much. And I still want you more than I've wanted anyone else. You make me happy just by...smoking a fucking cigarette or calling me some lame nickname."

"It wasn't lame," Mickey muttered.

"Can't we just...try? Can't we just tell the universe or God or whatever to go fuck itself?"

Mickey put his head in his hands. He said, "It nearly killed me, you know, when you got that fucking name."

"I know. Me, too."

"I can't go through that again. I can't have you be in my life when I know you're gonna leave it again--Cause you will," he said as Ian opened his mouth to object, "You will. You don't think it'll happen but one day...maybe you'll go back to this Max. Or maybe he wasn't the right Max and you'll find the right one _because_ you moved here. You'll bump into him on the street and come home and tell me that you're really sorry but it's over..."

Ian didn't know what to say. How do you convince a guy who's always believed that he's fucked for life that you know you two are forever? 

He knew that everything depended on what he said next. He hoped there was a bit more magic in the universe for him after all and that it would make the right words come to him.

"Nothing is for sure. What you just said, about me coming home and telling you it's over? I did that exact same thing to Max. And he _is_ my soul mate, but I left him anyway. And you could find someone else, too, you know," Mickey snorted, "You _could_. You could break my heart just as easily as I could break yours. But I'm willing to take the risk. Because...just because, fuck, I don't know--I've run out of romantic crap to say--because you're _you_. And I'd like to be with you as long as I can. If that's one day or fifty years--I don't give a shit." 

Ian's words hung in the apartment as Mickey stared at him. It was awkward and Ian felt like maybe this was it--now Mickey would really and truly kill his hopes, but when he spoke Mickey said, "This guy Max--is he good looking?"

Ian didn't know where this was leading, but he answered anyway, "Yeah. He looks like you actually."

"Save it, Romeo. Is he funny?"

"Not really. He's more the sensitive poet type."

"Fuck. Seriously?"

"Yep."

Mickey rubbed his hand over his mouth, considering. Then he said, "That sounds like a pain in the ass."

Ian laughed, "Yeah, sometimes. He wrote a few prose poems about me."

"Maybe the universe did make a mistake."

"That's what I keep trying to tell you."

And before Ian could even be surprised by it, Mickey launched himself across the couch and kissed him. It was like...desperation and fear and longing all at once. They kissed for a long, long time. Eventually Mickey broke away and gently pressed his lips to Ian's jaw, to his eyebrows, to his nose. Ian laughed, Mickey had never been like this before but he loved it. Mickey took a breath and said, "All right, you annoying fucker. Dump him. Move to San Diego. We'll try--we'll try this--whatever the fuck this is. But you're not moving in with me--this place is too small and you'll probably realize what a fucking mistake this is in like a month so--"

Ian cut him off by kissing him again.

 

*****

Ian moved to San Diego. He pretended to look for another place for a while but he really moved into Mickey's tiny, tiny studio and Mickey never seemed to care. They bickered all the time and had sex all the time and it was pretty fucking great. Mickey had changed a lot since his days on the South Side. Or rather, it was like he could be who he always had been, deep down, without the fear of his father. He smiled a lot. Kissed Ian constantly and made all of Ian’s favorite dishes while thwacking Ian’s hand with the wooden spoon when he tried to steal a taste before it was done.

Ian had a few random office jobs at first, but one day a co-worker, Arthur, collapsed in his chair with chest pains and the paramedics had to come. As Ian watched them save Arthur’s life he thought, “I want to do _that_.” And so he did. Went back to school and trained to be a paramedic. He loved the job--the adrenaline and the importance of it. 

Mickey became head chef for a great little French/American bistro downtown. It wasn’t one of the hippest restaurants in SD but it was popular with the locals. It always drew a nice crowd. Ian liked to drop by on the nights when he wasn’t working--ostensibly to pester Mickey but really to just hang back in the kitchen and watch him. He was so focused and happy--constantly yelling and joking with his cooks.

Ian did feel a little guilty about Max. After coming to San Diego Ian had simply called him and told him he wasn't coming back and it was really, truly, finitely over. Max had asked, "But why? Why?" And Ian told him the truth, "I don't love you enough--I'll never love you enough." That had left Max stunned and he said very little after that. Ian called him again much later to apologize for how he had ended things. Max was standoffish at first but not angry. It turned out that five months after Ian dumped him he had met _another_ Ian. Some British novelist named Ian Thistlewhite he had run into at a publishing convention. Max said, “So I guess he was the Ian who was actually my soul mate all along--what are the odds?” And Ian had laughed for about a day after learning that.

For a long time he still had the name Max permanently marked on his arm. He didn’t really care one way or the other about it, although the way Mickey’s eyes still skittered around it made Ian a little sad. And then one day the name looked slightly faded. He thought he was imagining it but then it seemed even fainter the next day.

He said to Mickey, “Hey, does this look lighter to you?”

And for once Mickey really looked at his tattoo closely and answered, “Yeah. It does. Huh.”

And in a few weeks ‘Max’ faded completely. No one knew what to make of it. Fiona offered, “Maybe you’ll get Mickey’s name now?” Mandy said, “it probably means the universe makes a shit ton of mistakes constantly, but this was the one time it admitted it,” And Lip explained that he knew of this happening sometimes, although it was rare and only occurred if your soul mate died tragically. Ian rolled his eyes at this and thought that Lip was full of shit.

They all wanted to know how Ian felt about it, about what he thought it meant, but he just shrugged. He was happy it was gone because it made Mickey happy. Mickey finally stopped talking about how they were probably going to be a temporary thing--doomed to end whenever Ian realized he needed some random guy named Max. Instead, once Ian's arm was erased of any names Mickey started saying things like, “Well, since I’m stuck with you…” or “I can’t believe I’m saddled for life with a guy who got an un-ironic eagle tattoo,” and Ian loved it.

But as to what it all meant cosmically? What it all meant regarding his fate in the stars? Ian really couldn’t care less.


End file.
